


Sports Peppers on Hot Dogs

by compo67



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Belly Kink, Bottom Sam, Cravings, Curtain Fic, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mpreg, Multiple Orgasms, One Shot, Parenthood, Pregnant Sam, Pregnant Sex, Top Dean, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 07:13:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6414085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Without much warning from Sam, Dean can already tell he’s going to be prodded for another hotdog. This place used to only accept cash, which would actually be good for Dean right now, because he’s out. Six months ago, some hipsters complained and the stand accepts credit cards...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sports Peppers on Hot Dogs

At two in the morning, Sam wakes Dean up.

No emergency or any dire situation.

Dean just has to get his ass out of bed.

Thirty-ish minutes later finds Dean forking over twelve dollars and fifty-two cents to the tired-looking gentleman behind the counter of the hotdog stand. Steam rises from the pavement in a continuous reverse waterfall. The time of night—or morning—does nothing to diminish the amount of customers at the stand. Two small boxes appear at a second window and Dean’s number gets unceremoniously called out.

Lacking the same enthusiasm as other customers around him, Dean grabs the boxes only to plop them down on one of five picnic tables situated around the stand. The air doesn’t smell like hotdogs—it smells like the water the hotdogs have been steamed and sitting in for hours.

“No relish, right?” There’s no point in Sam asking this question. He pries the first hotdog out of its cardboard cocoon and takes the first of very few, yet messy bites.

Food and Dean are friends. They have been for a long time. One might even call food his BFF.

But greasy hotdogs at almost three in the morning in the middle of summer isn’t exactly his cup of tea. Or his cup of slimy, gray hotdog water. Dean inhales sharply. Damn his mind. Damn his inability to say no to Sam. Damn the hotdogs for looking like castrated penises floating there limp and helpless in giant tubs of hot water.

“For fuck’s sake, Sam, slow down,” Dean snaps, looking away from the carnage. “I’m not gonna eat your god damn food.”

Without much warning from Sam, Dean can already tell he’s going to be prodded for another hotdog. This place used to only accept cash, which would actually be good for Dean right now, because he’s out. Six months ago, some hipsters complained and the stand accepts credit cards.

“It’s… so good.”

“Ugh.”

“Mmm. Next one, extra sports peppers.”

“Did you get mustard on those?”

“Yeah.”

Dean snorts. “Then fuck the sports peppers.”

Hazel eyes water, as if Dean were beheading cute animals with a dull blade. Or deleting Tori Amos songs from Spotify playlists.

In response, Dean shakes his head. “No. _No_. I sleep next to you, Sam.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Those same hazel eyes change from innocuous to accusatory in two seconds.

“It means,” Dean rises from the table, “that when you eat spicy shit, it’s like driving a truck through a nitroglycerin factory.”

No one can say that Sam has poor aim, even when he’s eight months pregnant in mid-July during one of the hottest summers on record.

A crumpled up cardboard box hits Dean square in the back of the head.

“That’ll be _two_ more—one with chili, cheese, and EXTRA onions!”

And like the idiot he is, Dean returns with two hotdogs, one with chili, cheese, and EXTRA onions, the other with everything, minus relish, extra sports peppers.

Danger is his middle name.

 

Because of who they are, Sam stays up most nights pacing around their apartment.

The decision to move out of the bunker and into a civilian space was mutual. Or at least, Dean thought it was mutual. There was only so much they could talk or argue about it before committing to a decision and following through. Well, again, that was Dean’s thinking.

A bunker is no place to have a baby. Or raise it.

At least, not if they want to raise a civilian.

How would they explain the library filled with books on lore and weaponry instead of Dore the Explorer and Sesame Street? If the kid got into a spell book and read off a few things, even in babbles, the consequences were much greater than if they got into one of Dean’s racier magazines. No. They had made their decision. When in Rome—and all that shit.

The apartment used to belong to a hunter. It came fully furnished in terms of furniture and things to protect against other things that go bump in the night—utilities included in the rent.

Of course, that hunter is dead.

“You’re making holes in the floor,” Dean groans into his pillow, loud enough for Sam to hear in the other room. “Some of us have to work in the morning, you know.”

Sam hollers back without a pause in his movement. “I said I wanted to work until the baby got here.”

“Hey—I had no issue with that at all.” Sick of tossing and turning while Sam holds his own worry parade, Dean sits up, his hair sticking up wild and untamed. “If it were up to me, I’d be the one staying home.”

“Excuse me?” Storming over, Sam causes the spark of terror in the base of Dean’s spine. Two days overdue and three months of looking like he’s about to pop, Sam walks into the room belly first. His right hand retains its permanent spot on the edge of the rounded, generous curve, now situated lower. The baby dropped last night, with no signs of labor yet.

They should be resting—both of them.

“Would you just quit it and get back in bed?” Dean tries to wheel back to when things were calm and peaceful, or, ten seconds back, before he opened his mouth.

Dimples flash like lightning, framing a deep frown. “Would _you_ like to be pregnant next? Because I can arrange that, you know.”

Temptation skirts Dean’s tongue. Don’t say it. Don’t say…

“Look, you’re supposed to be off your feet. Let’s just go to sleep.” Oh. Wow. Dean mentally claps himself on the back. Totally not the answer his brain thought he’d give. Impressive.

On the flip side, Sam analyzes his response and the situation. He _could_ go back to sleep, but he also _could_ argue some more with Dean. The options here are difficult to choose from. Arguing with Dean wins out. For the millionth time this summer, Sam paces and argues, paces and argues, paces and—guess what—argues. What if they made the wrong decision to raise this child as a civilian? Since when are civilians their measurement of normal and well-adjusted? How do they even know what normal and well-adjusted looks like? What if they screw this kid up into being a total, pampered brat? What if their kid grows up and has nothing in common with either of them and sits in therapy complaining about how fucked up they are because of them?

Lying down, Dean studies the form Sam cuts in the light of the lamp on Sam’s nightstand.

He’s been waddling for a good three weeks now, though Dean’s referred to it as elegant lumbering whenever Sam’s brought it up. There’s no doubt that the baby takes after Sam already—even though it looks like there’s twins in there, multiple visits to an actual doctor have yielded only one baby. It’s likely to be longer than most babies, and a hefty nine or ten pounds. Healthy, is what Dean calls it.

“It hasn’t kicked since last night.”

“It’s probably sleeping, like we should be.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

“What if my water breaks right now?”

“Then the kid owes me ten bucks.”

“The hell are you talking about?”

“I’m promising it ten bucks if it’ll let me sleep in.”

“…”

The lack of a stern reply motivates Dean to sit up again. Sam stands in the doorway, biting his bottom lip, smoothing out the wrinkles of his nightshirt over his heavy middle. He looks good. Better than good. That glowing thing isn’t bullshit. And the extra meat on Sam has filled him out, made him more human and less of a bodybuilding god.

Keeping his sighs to a minimum, Dean rolls out of bed.

At this time of night, the floor’s cold. He pads over to the doorway to place his hands over Sam’s shoulders. “I’m teaching our kid to shoot a gun—civvie or not.”

To this, Sam only huffs.

“This kid is gonna be the Godfather of the neighborhood.” Dean’s hands tentatively move up to Sam’s neck, thumbs pressed against tender, vulnerable places of arterial rhythm. “Any other kid who wants to play on the swings’ll have to get through our kid.”

Finally, Sam pouts out, “I hate that movie.”

“I know you do.”

Their lips press at an odd angle. Three seconds into the kiss and Dean’s neck hurts from craning his neck. It’s awkward all over again. Like the first time they tried to make this happen.

Unlike that first time, Sam draws Dean closer.

“I want this so much.”

There should maybe be an eloquent response here. Maybe some poetry or flowing prose. Instead, it’s Dean’s fingertips sinking into sensitive skin, rubbing circles in the space between Sam’s ears and jaw. It’s Dean murmuring a very simple and quiet, “Me too.”

Eyes closed, Sam basks.

He all but shoves Dean towards their bed, using his weight and size to his advantage.

Within seconds, long fingers dip into Dean’s pajamas and curl around his cock. Somehow, their bodies arrange themselves on the bed, performing feats worthy of acrobatics and porn stars. Sam’s tongue mimics his hand, delving into Dean’s mouth. Their teeth click. Their noses bump. Sam rests the weight of his belly on Dean’s middle, grinding down with it and moaning the second Dean begins to gently palm it.

Pushing Sam’s shirt up, Dean lets out a throaty breath, pinned down and wanted.

“Fuck me.” Strands of chestnut hair form a curtain above Dean. “Fuck me, Dean.”

Hormones have been good to them for the most part. There was very little morning sickness or congestion. And despite being a chronic snorer, Sam’s snoring never worsened. It’s been a smooth ride.

“How?” His voice catches, sounding hoarser and softer than he intends it.

Sam responds without words. Shucking his shirt, he tosses it somewhere, then begins the search under his pillow for the necessary supplies. He moves his hips in tortuous circles all the while, rocking back and forth, building up friction and heated pressure. With Dean’s help, Sam’s pajama pants also disappear to the netherworld of his shirt. Only Dean remains clothed.

Reaching back, Sam requires no help.

Dean braces his hands on Sam’s belly. His fingers frame wide, coral stretchmarks, skimming over them, lightly scratching before groping. The gasp Sam gives proves worthwhile. For every stroke Sam gives of Dean’s cock, Dean rubs circles over Sam’s belly. He licks his palms, slicking up enough to make the mound almost shine in the dim lamplight.

The sight of Sam with his head tossed back, throat exposed and belly heaving, rouses an instinctive, primal hunger in Dean. Desperately, he wants to act on it—flip Sam over and fuck him rough and hard from behind…

But this is Sam’s show.

Straddling Dean, resting his hands on the mattress, Sam arches his hips back, unable to see his hips but still guided by natural knowledge. He lifts up. The tip of Dean’s cock nudges against his ass. They both moan in response, their skin alight this craving.

No more is more fluid than Sam pushing his hips down over the length of Dean’s hard, flushed cock. He pauses halfway, gorgeous and graceful, just to enjoy the feeling of being filled. The tight ring of muscle flutters and contracts all around Dean. It contradicts itself. One moment it squeezes him, the next moment it sucks him in—until their hips meet and Sam cries out from the intensity.

They haven’t decided on what they’ll be to this kid.

They’ll probably have to sit them down and tell them a few truths, while other kids their age worry about dances and popularity. But it shouldn’t be more than one conversation. Just one. Because that’s it. That’s all they’re going to involve this kid into _that_ life.

This life.

It’s still theirs, at least for now.

The mattress squeaks even when Sam rises against Dean. He pushes himself higher, using the muscles in his thighs, lifting so that only the tip of Dean’s cock remains inside him. A second later, frantic and aching, Sam slams his hips down. He works his hips in circles. He wheezes slightly. He begins to sweat as his muscles tense, moaning louder, fucking himself over Dean’s cock raw and unhindered.

Finding leverage, Dean thrusts upwards, answering the rocking waves of Sam’s hips. He fucks into Sam in a frenzy, feeling his balls slap against Sam’s ass, burying his face in Sam’s belly. Burning up, he rims the edge of Sam’s bellybutton, licking up, tongue tracing a more obvious stretchmark.

“Don’t stop,” Sam pants, his thighs clenching. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t…” Increasing the pressure, perfecting his aim, Dean slams into one particular spot. Sam’s speech changes. He sits up, showing off his curves, and tosses his head back to scream, “Yes, yes, yes, yes—there! Oh, fuck me there! Right there, yes, yes, yes…!”

Fascinated, Dean watches Sam come untouched.

Riding Dean fast, rough, and insatiable, Sam shouts and calls out, his entire body responding to his orgasm. He comes in thick ropes, spilling onto the underside of his belly and all over Dean’s middle, spurts of it landing as far as Dean’s chest. He comes again, those hormones aiding him, and he stops all movement—only rocking back on Dean’s cock, eyes fluttering, shoulders back and belly pushed out.

Dean punches out a groan. He digs his fingers into Sam’s hips, bringing them closer and closer.

The feeling of his own orgasm rushes him, sweeping over his senses, every last drop of come wrung out of him. He comes inside Sam, buried deep.

They could have kept on arguing.

Their hands meet in the middle—directly on top of Sam’s belly.

Ten seconds later and there’s no mistaking the baby kicking, captive in its confined space.

“Told you,” Dean pants out, steadying Sam, “it was sleeping.”

Wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, Sam sighs. He lets out an exhale, moaning softly as their hips move together, Dean still inside him. “Well, now we woke it up.”

They’re going to do this. And greeting card, sappy lines crap, they’re going to do this together. They’ll take turns changing this kid’s diapers and spoon feeding it mashed up pears. There are bound to be mistakes—or as Sam calls them, opportunities to improve—along the way. But the apartment is on the first floor with a patch of grass in the back some could call a yard. The sidewalk outside is still smooth, and it might stay that way until Dean attempts to teach this kid how to ride a bike.

All of that is going to happen and more. Whatever fractured childhoods and adolescences they had, this kid will have the Real Deal. It may not have a privileged life of wealth and luxury, but it’s gonna know how to change a tire and how to use the Dewey decimal system.

This kid will spend weeks agonizing over what to wear to homecoming dances and prom. They’ll share secret crushes with Sam and strategize with him about how to break these relationships to Dean without the fanfare of shot guns and macho threats. The macho threats will still probably happen, but at least Sam has a good chance of hiding all guns and ammo from Dean the very first time this kid goes out on a date.

No matter who they are, this kid will have it better.

This kid will get hotdogs at three in the morning from someone in the future who gives them the world without asking anything in return.

“If you go to sleep,” Dean murmurs, tilting his hips towards Sam’s side of the bed, “it will too.”

Clean up occurs without much of a fuss. The lamp on Sam’s nightstand shuts off and nothing but the hum of the air conditioner and the sound of their breathing fills up the room. Chest to back, they lay tangled up, Dean’s right hand over Sam’s on a familiar place. One last kick can be felt, just as a reminder.

It’s a good three hours later that Sam wakes Dean up.

“I’m not getting you a hotdog,” Dean growls into the back of Sam’s neck.

All Sam does is laugh like a jerk who can run on three hours of sleep.

“Trust me, you’re gonna wish that’s what I was gonna ask.”

“Huh?”

“Can you call the midwife?”

“What? Why? What’s wrong?”

 

To her credit, after five hours of labor, their daughter is much better than any hotdog, with or without sports peppers.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Rie's fic, "Baby Girl," here on AO3. Thank you! :D
> 
> Just flexing my porn and fluff muscles. Missed writing Wincest and all these needy feels. Leave me comments, I love reading them! <3
> 
> Now I am off to sleep.


End file.
